


The Cherry Orchard

by infradead



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Artist and Muse, Childhood Friends, F/M, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infradead/pseuds/infradead
Summary: At the time, he’d have preferred things the way as they were, with you adamant to become something otherworldly, and he some aspiring artist who found his muse through you.





	The Cherry Orchard

**Author's Note:**

> me, sobbing into my cup of coffee: WHERE ARE ALL THE SIEGE FICS?
> 
> did i mention i play too much siege? i play too much siege. did i mention i, of course, would fall in love with nearly 95% of the operators? i did.
> 
> i've had this fic sitting around for probably close to 3 months in a word doc and after some lovely coercion from a fellow friend, had this finally churned out and completed. ~~was this inspired by chekhov's cherry orchard i damn well hope so!!!~~ my russian is SO damn rusty and unpracticed so forgive me fellow speakers. this will be two parts; smut will follow up in chapter 2, homies, with the rating to increase accordingly. this story spans from 2004 till 2015, where r6s technically takes place. 
> 
> also had to post this story twice due to a weird hiccup with the submission--oops!
> 
> would you like some inspirational music?  
> when the world was at war we kept dancing - lana del rey  
> cherry - lana del rey  
> polovtsian dances with chorus - aleksandr borodin
> 
> if you like this, there may be some future siege operators! i've def got mute on first lineup, but drop a word on anyone else you'd like to see! :^)

For as long as Timur could remember, it’d always been you telling him to never worry.

Never about what, about who, whether it be you or him. Not like he had much to worry about in the first place, with what you always banging your knee against the nearest table in existence on a daily basis. The scraped elbows, the wrestling him down at the cherry orchard in the backyard. You, innocent to a fault yet peerlessly blameless--the one kid in the neighborhood he never really minded despite how he could never hope to outmatch you in conversation. Listening was more of his chore, not as if he minded speaking in the first place; with you, he realized, he never had to worry, aside from the one time you’d nearly split yourself in half and cried into his shoulder the entire way he’d taken you to the hospital.

It’d always been you running up to his doorsteps as children--calling his name, and if anything _pleading_ his mother at the skirts of her dress if he could come out to play. At the time, he’d have preferred things the way as they were, with you adamant to become something otherworldly, and he some aspiring artist who found his muse through you.

Even as children you hadn’t been so oblivious to the fact that he could draw a more perfect circle than you ever could--catch color in details while you meshed unflattering pastels together on paper and called it modern art. For one of his teenage birthdays you’d saved up as much as you could to get him what he still cherishes, though you’ve probably long forgotten of its existence now--a thick sketchbook, leatherbound and fittingly mature for someone of his quiet age. Ever since that day, you think, he’d never stick his nose into anything else aside from good graphite and needle-thin lead, the gentle quietness and peace that he’d submerge himself with until you’d come crashing into his life over and over again.

It’s not as if the peace and tranquility ever perturbed you, not when the boy at your side is ever so diligently concentrated on the work at hand. If he’s ever distressed he only shows it when he’s reaching for the eraser that’s quickly slimming down since you’d last seen it (which was, what? A few _hours_ ago?), and even then you can’t quite tell his so-called _distress_ apart from _mild annoyance_.

You know better than to peek over at his work in progress, to butcher that privacy he props against his knees and holds so dear to his chest. _Until he’s finished. Until he wants you to look._ He’s already halfway through the sketchbook and you’re glad none of the pages have gone to waste, though you can’t help but admit that for all of his voracious drawing, you haven’t seen as many as he’s gone through.

You don’t have to look over to know he’s still hard at work on whatever has his attention this time--the last thing he’d shown you was something he’d been working on while visiting his father at work at the shipyard, where virtually everyone’s own fathers do, too. Boats (“They’re ships, _pchelka_ , not boats,” he’d reminded you) suspended above murky water, coming in to dock and skirting away from the bay. You’d been to the shipyard for as long as you can remember, have seen it too many times to be sick of it.

And yet when he’d shown you what he’d drawn you couldn’t help but feel just special enough to see that reminder through Timur’s eyes, those careful details, the smudge of dark charcoal fading into wanderlusting shadows. The vivid, washed-out water color he’d given the sea and sunset, and for a time you’d wondered if what you saw was the same shipyard at all.

But today allows neither of you to go wandering out into the city, the docks, even the cherry orchard out in the backyard that you’re both fondly gazing out into from the safety perch of your parent’s porch. Droplets of rushing rain bead like translucent curtains from the gutter, and you wonder if he’s paying more attention to that or the white noise of the radio tuned between you. Knees drawn to your chest and arms wrapped around them, you’re both sitting shoulder to shoulder and paying no mind to one or the other, even when you blow a puff of air upwards to move that pesky strand of hair from your forehead.

Even menial chores like that hardly move him from his sketching, but you can’t help but notice the way his mouth parts--much like a person who’d been interrupted in the midst of something, as if something wants to be said but he’s shut himself out far before he’ll allow it to be. For a flash you feel that sweltering wash of guilt and turn your head his way to let him know that he has your full attention, tucking your chin between your knees when his pencil ceases all motion.

“ _Izvini_ ,” you mutter quietly, hoping he’ll be in the playful mood if you really did break his focus. Even at seventeen he shows a kind of restraint too mature for his age, too well-tempered. Doesn’t stop him from giving you the cold shoulder from time to time, but never for long--whether he likes to admit it or not, you’re one of the few he actively seeks out to conversate with.

“Did I interrupt?” you pose, not meaning to glance down at his sketchbook. His arm already blocks most of the page anyway, though you look away as quickly as your eyes had wandered.

His throat clears, voice soft after having gone so long with only silence. “No, you… it’s nothing important.”

You squint at him, as if it could peel back the truth from his vague answer. “Are you _sure?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” he stresses, though not unkindly. “I would hope so.”

You rarely ever ask, but you feel this time you must. “What are you drawing?”

The pesky question each artist could make fortunes from--you know it’ll _mildly annoy_ him once the question is even out of your mouth, but he shoots an amused look your way through sea-blue eyes.

“Consider it more as _practicing_ ; ships get boring to draw… water, too.”

There’s memories aplenty you’ve shared together in the cherry orchard, though even that must get boring to someone like Timur. For the hundreds of times you’ve both sat together looking at the cherry trees, chasing each other through them, wrestling each other into the patches of petals, picking them once they’ve bloomed and ripened--you would think he’d have enough practice drawing them already.

You echo the word back-- _practicing_. Not the cherry trees again, you hope, if only because there has to be more than what you both live and breathe every day. Landscapes had always been his area of expertise, and the thought of that alone is enough for you to wonder what has his attention now.

Something thoughtful crosses his expression for a split moment, eyes glancing downwards at the pages below him, carefully guarded by his forearm. Like his father, he’s growing to be a rather stocky and muscular boy, and in these childish dreams you can’t help but wonder how beautiful he’ll be in the years to come. Not wandering thoughts you voice to him, no, but a fleeting one nonetheless, many involving him and you with more than just hands intertwined and wrestling each other down into the flowering cherry petals.

His lips part like he has something to say again, glancing over at you and your drawn-up legs, the scraping scars from misadventure, the thoughtful gaze you offer him with a quirky smile as your cheek presses against a long-bruised knee. Your hair is neatly done this time around, thanks to him and his fine combing skills, as well as the rain interrupting any plans you had in mind with him. For once, he breaks your gaze and hurriedly turns to a fresh page in his sketchbook, too quick for you to see what he had been practicing and too confused to notice that dusting flush against his cheeks.

The white noise that once made up the radio between you is suddenly interrupted in static and breaking news, both of you perking up to the rapid-fire urgency that crackles the lines and cloyingly mismatches the pattering rain. With him, within his expression, his body language, even in silence he doesn’t have to speak for you to recognize the smaller details--that he’s attentive, thoughtful, and ever so inspired to be some force of change, even if you worry you won’t ever be able to follow.

Your brows knit together in worry as you listen to the droning radio. “Beslan?”

“A hostage situation,” Timur murmurs, suddenly focused on the radio more so than the sketchbook in his lap. “Did you hear how many people, children even, are taken as one there right now?”

You’d heard the numbers, and even though it’s miles away and an even longer trip across the country, your heart drops at the thought. That even Timur sounds worried, more than just some nitpicky mildly annoyed, but tense _anger_ \--it’s the first for you, and the first time you ever feel the need to quiet yourself as you study him carefully.

When the broadcast ends the white noise that once was returns, some ditty filling the void of air with a tune that you can’t seem to pay any attention to. The boy you fondly love, whom you pester and drag around and can’t help but belong to is suddenly somber and living deeply in his own rooted thoughts, gazing through the cherry trees like he’ll find a worthy answer to his questioning dilemma.

He suddenly tucks his sketchbook beneath an arm and goes to stand, too quick for you as you scramble to reach for his hand. “I should go,” he interjects, gesturing to stop you from moving any further. “My father should be home soon. Walk with you to school tomorrow?”

Confused and defeated by his sudden want for departure, you watch him fetch his shoes and hurry to leave without so much as waiting for your answer.

 

 

It’s the first time you ever consider truly _crying_ for the reasons of heartbreak, and that hard-pressed feeling just won’t _stop_.

Timur’s gaze is pitifully sympathetic at the sight of your watery eyes, even as you turn your head away so he won’t see them, heels of your palms digging against them to wipe the moisture away. In this moment you want to hate him--hate that he ever sat you down and treated you like his _pchelka_ for as long as you could remember, the fact that it’s still raining just like that day you’d had him before listening to that radio broadcast.

His words are still replaying on a broken repeat just as he’d confessed them.

“I’m getting transferred to the Cadet Corps,” he’d revealed suddenly. Like the idea of him being so far gone hardly even matters. That he’d be leaving behind his family, his few friends, his parents, and most of all _you_ to some purveying dream uninspired by the work of his sketchbook.

Even for all of your impulsiveness you can’t seem to voice that to him, knowing that he’s going exactly where you can’t follow, putting himself in a position unreachable even to your own pawing hands. Because you know that in the end he doesn’t belong in the many shipyards as his father and other fathers do--that he’d always been slated for something vast and surreal, though that to you was more along the lines of becoming another Michelangelo or Bernini.

You know the harder truth that no matter how much you platonically and unconditionally love him, how much he quietly reciprocates the mutual feeling, even you aren’t enough to ground him here. His happiness, after all, is what matters most, even if what makes him dream deeply doesn’t rightly make for yours. It wouldn’t be right to take him all for yours--it’d be wholly selfish to stop him now, to barricade him from pursuing something more than just another boy taking his father’s place amongst the many ships that come and go.

You sober up enough to twiddle with your fingers, wringing them against one another like it’ll keep you rooted to the earth. Voice quiet, it’s a far cry different than your usual perky boister as you train your eyes away from him.

“I can’t stop you,” you mutter, trying not to clue him on your turmoil of his leave. “Is that what you want, for me to beg you not to go?”

He looks miffed more than wounded, knowing this must sting more than you let on. “ _Pchelka_...”

“ _Don’t_ ,” you harshly order, though not because you don’t want him to leave. “Don’t--let anyone stop you from doing this. From doing what you want, from what you think is right for you to do. _Okay?_ ”

 _Not even me_ remains suspended and unspoken in the air between you, the soft lull of rain rushing against the side of the house only another reminder of how much of him you’ll truly miss. Everyone had always thought he’d become an artist, not another army boy to be sent away on some generations-long pilgrimage. A part of you grows somber because you know they’ll take him in a heartbeat, take him from you even though you know full well that Timur is doing this out of his own will.

Telling you this feels all like some obligated formality--you’d grown up with him all this time, and it only feels like he’s doing this because he _has_ to. With attentive eyes he watches how nervously you steel yourself, wide-eyed and blameless like some fawn ready to break for the treeline at the slightest sound of encroaching danger. Nothing like the _pchelka_ he so fondly calls you, buzzing and sweet and fluttering all around.

Because you don’t want him second-guessing himself because of you being weak, for him feeling obligated now to be there to protect you forever. He’ll have to leave one day--and maybe he doesn’t love you the same way you do, that you’d been blind because growing up with him had meant you’d be together through mud and blood. You feel more like a ball and chain to him than a much-needed friend, someone to support his idea and desire to do more than dream through his artistry.

Your throat clears, trying to ease him to feel that you aren’t bothered completely by his absence, though that’s far from the truth. “You--uh, you will call me, yes?”

The corner of his lips twitch, blue eyes shimmering with that golden fondness he seems to associate with only you, and your heart beats faster because of it. “ _Konechno, kazhdyy den'_. How could I not?”

You huff and cross your arms, giving him your back as you fight down a flustering blush from his gaze. “You are just saying that.”

The warmth of him is suddenly closer, though you shy away at the thought of turning around to check. His voice is comforting, tone just as so, and even teasing as you hear him leaning down closer to your ear. “I mean it,” he murmurs, and you shiver.

“Timur?”

“Mm?”

You turn then, meeting his eyes with that wondering temperament of yours. “Take the sketchbook with you. For when you go. Take it with you, okay?”

He seems slightly confused by the request, but the thought of him abandoning it doesn’t seem like it’d crossed his mind at all, much to your relief. “I will. Promise.”

Your hand raises, pinky out for him to behold as he continues to grow even more befuddled by the action.

“...What is that?”

“I don’t know,” you plainly confess, though make no motion to put your hand down. “I saw it on _TV_ the other day. I think it is supposed to seal your promise.”

And he chuckles a little. “What do I do then?”

He never resists when you reach down for his hand, the size difference coming true as your fingers can barely finish wrapping around his own knuckles. You pose him to stick his own pinky out, demonstrating to him the so-called finalized promise by curling your own little finger around his with a soft squeeze of certainty. The warmth you radiate there, your soft touch is enough for him to feel at ease and comfort with his words.

There’s something bittersweet he feels when you finally slip away, letting that warmth disappear as you sigh. No, none of this is rightly like you, he finally realizes; it’s always been you wrapping your arms around his neck from behind, hugging him tightly and pressing your face into his neck while he was in the middle of his drawings. Always been you to take his hand out of impulsive joy, eyes bright and dragging him behind you despite that he’d always have a longer stride.

You’d kissed him before, of course--on his cheeks, his forehead, the one time you’d accidentally scraped his knuckles during a wrestling tumble and you’d pressed his hands to your lips in apology.

In the moment, you do none of this, even out of impulse as he is so accustomed to you behaving. And it’s then does it sink in that it’d always been _you_ taking the lead with your feelings, your feelings for _him_ and that you’ve never been one to shy away from how you expressed them. Details, like always--it dawns on Timur, then, that it’s never been him to initiate any of this. And maybe to you it may appear like it’d always been one-sided, that he’d only been putting up with you borne simply out of childhood friendship. Compared to you he’d always been more reserved, introspective of the way he expresses himself--and it’s true, then, that only for you he suddenly reaches forward, yanking your body into his arms despite your surprised cry.

He’d always been the gentle giant, truth be told. Even if it meant you tackling his towering form to the grass, he’d always been keen on letting you do as you please (“I _let_ you win,” he’d explain himself) but right now it’s him who wants to right these things. A pleasant warmth from his chest nuzzles your cheek there, arms low against his hips, and you’re stunned speechless if only because everything feels different this time.

“Let me do this,” he murmurs against the crown of your head, fingers playing softly against the end strands of your combed hair. “Are you afraid of me being gone, _pchelka?_ I will come back to you, always.”

It’s true that you’re afraid that one day he may not, though you aren’t about to keep him grounded here simply because you expect to see each other grow old together forever. Even you can admit your naivety, yes, but a reach that far you know better than to have expectations for. He wants to be something bigger, better than to be here when he knows he can do much more out in the world, and you know you’re not enough to stop him.

So you don’t, trying to remember those pleasant tingles race up your skin when he soothingly runs his palm up and down your back. “I _expect_ you to,” you order him, feeling his heart thrum just a beat faster beneath his shirt.

His chest rumbles with a soft laugh, and you remember it even after two years will pass of him absent from your life.

 

 

Timur called when he could and when school permitted him, of course, which wasn’t much compared to how busy he’d be. In the years that passed, he hadn’t had time to return home--he’d said something about attending the Khabarovsk Military Commanders Training Academy, a mouthful for you but another step forward for him.

While he’s off pursuing his worldly travels and extensively thrilling military career, you’re stuck in an engineering program in Far Eastern Federal and still the same old in Vladivostok. Truth be told, there hasn’t been much time for either of you to even really turn attention to one or the other--he doesn’t exactly divulge what he does in training, naturally, and he doesn’t have enough time to question what you do in engineering.

But finally, _finally_ there’s a moment of peace in the storm that makes up your lives--he’s been cleared to leave the academy for the holidays, and you’ve finished wrapping up finals at university to be free for a few weeks. His planned return isn’t something you’re aware of, however; he’d phoned his mother far ahead of time, and with you being so preoccupied with your own studies you’d been none the wiser to his coming back.

Two years have passed since he’d been inspired to leave his home and shape himself into the man he is now, nineteen and a studious marksman in training. His growth spurt had most definitely kicked in, generously shown through his height and build, stockier and hardened with intensive training day by day. And though he hasn’t seen action on a battlefield he already looks prepared for the part, dark hair now trimmed and filling out his cadet uniform comfortably and snug.

He’d arrived at your doorstep alongside his mother with expectations of you already home from university, but your own mother answering the door dispels that and he’s sooner disappointed. You aren’t home yet, she ruefully admits with a sigh, but you will be in a few, caught up in traffic and a few last minute snags at school. At that knowledge, a sense of interest and pride suddenly piques him that you must be both hard at work and up to no good, though he won’t let tardiness ruin this at all--he’s a patient man and the years have only proved that, his beret in palm as your mother invites him and his own inside to relax.

His mother and yours are keen towards the tea and whistling stove, and while he doesn’t mind the prospect on this winter’s evening he’s been longing to see you even more. The house has been well kept since you’ve both been away and your mother senses something about him, turning his way with a smile that reminds him so much of yours.

“You can go to her room if you want, _dorogoy_.”

She laughs a little and he can’t help but feel his face turn warm at the invitation.

He’d be foolish to deny it though, thanking her as he retraces his steps that feel like ages ago. Padding up the staircase in the _tapochki_ your mother had given him, he sees the door to your room already open, as if someone had been trying to reminisce that you’re still here in the house despite being away at school. A dent that your father hadn’t really found the time to repair through all the years still marks the wall outside of your door, and though it’s faint he still can’t help but smile--you’d bang your elbow against it after trying to chase him down the hall.

They say out of all of the five senses, smell is mystifyingly potent and powerful at triggering memories. When he walks through the threshold of your room, the first inhale he takes reminds him of his face against your hair--wild and tangled from playing with one another but the scent of something softly vanilla and sweet, a stark contrast to your venturing and headlong tastes. It’s intoxicating enough for him to pause from going in any further, your room untouched to how you’d last left it but the scent lingering still. The orderly state of your room is more than likely your mother’s doing, and when he finally gathers himself to venture further he stops at the vanity across your made bed.

Beside the glass of perfume his fingers reach out to touch the framed portrait of you and him, months before he’d decided to make his leave as evident by his grown-out hair and your wide grin. And though your happiness here is unchained, pure and true, he can’t help but frown at the prospect that he’d been the one responsible for changing that upon his leave. Few things in this world have ever truly upset you, he feels, setting the frame down and glancing over at the new additions to your vanity.

To his surprise he lifts up a tube of lipstick to inspect closer, and the thought he has of you at first are adolescent, simplistic; you’re experimenting in makeup, trying to find a shade that matches your skin tone and brightens your teeth. Pulling the cap apart curiously and twisting to see the color you’ve chosen causes his stunted second thought to make him swallow the longer he stares at the used bullet, pausing as he stifles his breath. Your lips had been there, it’s _definitely_ your shade of red, and he wonders how he’d look with your kiss stains against the corner of his.

It’s his third thought that nearly interrupts his stuttering fascination, disappointed suddenly at the prospect--the prospect of you wearing this to impress somebody else.

He doesn’t know precisely where this thought process had come from, but it’s a possibility nonetheless, one that he seems to struggle with. You’d let him go without much resistance because you knew it was what he wanted, what would make him happy--why should he bar you from your own, even if it meant you found someone else to pine for?

He’d been gone long enough for it to happen considering your current university situation and program, and it’s an almost foreign concept imagining you laughing and wrestling around with someone else the way you do with him. Even he can say that in the two years of him gone, dragged to the bar with his other comrades, he’s had interested people approach him.

But that ordeal is one and done--with you, he feels, it’s an opportunity for a lifelong commitment, finding someone else who shares the same interests and dedication as you do. To his embarrassment he realizes that he has no idea what you’re studying, and that twining promise you’d made him swear to seem long in the making of shambles.

Books stacked on the far side of your vanity are the only hope he has of a clue--introductory courses and they’re generously bookmarked and tagged with a multitude of colorful, handwritten notes. Highlighted keywords and enlarged fonts to emphasize due dates skim the pages of the notebook you’ve stacked beneath the thick textbook, handwriting tapering off at the onslaught of a speedy, unmerciful lecture.

You’ve been more than busy, he concludes ruefully, returning your notebook where it belongs. It’s a short-lived thought when he hears the rushing footsteps downstairs, curiously turning his attention to where it finally reaches the front door.

He’s only heard your voice through the few times he’d been able to call, but being here now, listening to it in the same moment as him…

“Mama, it’s freezing.” He hears your chattering, luggage rumbling in not far behind. “ _Proklyatiye!_ My socks are _soaked_... let me change them first, I’ll be right back.”

Even with the training he has, nothing has prepared his pulsing heartbeat when your footsteps ascend the staircase. His breaths come out shorter even as he tries to steel himself not to--and as he tries to calm himself, both he and you abruptly still at the sight of one another.

You, with your thick winter coat and ushanka clad head, fur-lined hood framing your neck and shoulders around a cozy, thick knitted scarf. It’s not enough to hide the hair spilling out beneath your cap, carefully curled in swept waves that his fingers long to wrap around.

You say nothing, not even a sound of breath as you suddenly launch yourself forward and throw your arms securely, warmly round his neck, all thoughts of your wet knee-high socks forgotten. Everything feels right as they belong, where they should be--his thick arms at your waist, your face digging into the side of his neck while he presses his own against the side of yours. He inhales and-- _yes_ , it’s there, it’s real, that vanilla scent now touched with an underlying cherry.

The snowing weather from outside turns your coat cold but he doesn’t care, laughing softly against your ear. “ _Pchelka_ , I hardly recognize you.”

“Shut up,” you say, muffled against his skin. “I could say the same for you, _zhopa_. What have they been feeding you there? You look like you’ve been stuffed silly with whey and creatine. I bet I can still wrestle you to the floor regardless.”

“ _Protein supplements_ ,” he politely corrects, rocking you softly, and you smile beneath his jawline. “And no, I have no doubt you could.”

You pull your head back and he isn’t exactly prepared for that, gazing upon your face as he swallows hard; your lips are most definitely painted red.

“Let’s get something to eat,” you say, and he tries to keep his eyes on yours. “I want to know what you’ve been doing, army boy.”

After shucking off your outerwear and changing your socks, you’ve both had your fill of lunch and filled the two years with summaries of what you’ve so far accomplished and hope to. It’s news to you that he’s being trained as both a sniper and spotter--and modest as he may be, you can’t help but feel proud that he’s moving on to leading roles. Some of the other kids in school had teased that his artistic endeavors wouldn’t amount to much, but you begged to differ.

You appear thoughtful around your mug of tea, blanket around your shoulder as you both sit at the crackling fireplace. “It suits you,” you admit, taking a sip as he shoots you a curious glance. “You being a sniper, it suits you.”

“What makes you say that?”

You smooth out a wrinkle in the pleat of your skirt, cherry-red lips curving into a smile. “Because you need to have an eye for detail as an artist, right? Just as a sniper should. Like when a touch of color is out of place... when a shadow does not match with its surroundings…” You take another sip. “Or when a shape is not where it is supposed to be.”

He feels warmer, studying you and letting your words linger for some comfortable silence. The soft orange glow of flickering flame against the curves of your face, your eyes that same widened doe-like wonder that he’s always known. It’s not as wild as it was, surely, but you’ve certainly grown into your own and the curiosity is still there.

“And what about you?” he asks, setting his mug aside on the edge of the rug. You’ve been so fixated on his return and stories that he realizes that he hasn’t even spoken much of yours. “What have you been working on?”

At the newfound subject of the question he’s shocked when you suddenly turn bashful, blandly _disinterested_ even; you think that compared to what he’s doing, it pales in comparison in both adventure and imagination and therefore isn’t worth speaking much about. Or maybe, he ponders, the thought coming forth again, you think he’s only asking this because he’s compelled to?

Your fingers tug at the frayed edges of the rug in the face of apathy, looking warmly snug wrapped with knitted blankets. “Researching, actually,” you murmur. “Just some project I’ve started on earlier on the semester with the graduates. It’s nothing remarkable, Timur.”

He frowns at this. “I can’t vouch for that unless you tell me, _pchelka_.”

And you sigh, swirling your mug of tea around. “It’s just some project on refracting telescopes combined with image sensors like… infrared. Or thermal imaging,” you supply a bit inelegantly.

Timur tilts his head. “Like… how they take some pictures of space?”

You laugh a little. “ _Yes_ , but we’re working on a smaller scale. Or trying to. They want me to figure out if I can make it smaller, more ergonomic while outputting the same result.”

You watch as he lifts his steaming mug to his lips. “Sounds to me like a pitch from a camera company. If so, I expect you’ll be making royalties.”

“Maybe,” you ponder. “Anyways, that’s why I was late today. Just… trying to figure out how to power it without sacrificing the image space. It’s rather small and finicky to work with, the _proklyataya veshch'_.”

His lips upturn, the corner of his eyes crinkling with laughter. “Something finally bothering you? Am I hearing that right?”

“Quiet,” you sniff his way, “if I finish this, I may just become a front page scholar, you know. Don’t be jealous!”

“Am I not always?”

Your shoulders shake as you laugh. “Of _what?_ ”

A plan he’d had for ages seems to finally resurface back then, seeing your drawn up knees to your chest as he perks up. “Wait here a moment, I won’t be long.”

Without another word he disappears back up the staircase, leaving you to your befuddled state while nursing your cooling mug of tea. He’d left his bag upstairs in your room, though you can’t help but imagine what he could possibly forget. It’s holiday season, after all, but he wouldn’t bring you your gift early, would he? You know you’re tempted to give him his yourself, but you’d rather make him wait just as you’re sure he’ll make you.

“It’s not your Christmas gift, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Timur laughs as he descends down the staircase, and you urge him with your full attention, turning his way and impatiently making room closer beside you in the knitted blankets.

He’d shed the outer layer of his uniform long ago, the striped patterns of his shirt left bare as he makes himself comfortable at your side. With little urgency he brandishes an unfamiliar sight at first--the slightly weathered edges crinkled and pushed in leather, worn out but it’s the next second does it hit you. You gawk at him, waiting for his permission before he laughs again and allows you to snatch it from his hands.

You’d almost forgotten about this little thing, unrealistically filled with the voracity of a dedicated artist. It seems he’s had both enough time to hone his marksmanship _and_ eye for detail, you conclude, tending to the sketched pages with a gentleness and respect many seem to be unaware you could have. The first few pages bring back memories--of you sitting at his side in the backyard porch, or tossing rocks into the dark waves rolling into the shoreline. These, you linger on for a few moments longer, unaware to Timur’s careful gaze as you flip through each one.

There’s one sketch you pause on, thoughtfully tilting your head with a fond look. “I’ve never seen you draw people before.”

He’s cool to reply, glancing towards the fireplace. “Ah, people are just as finicky to work with as your space scope, yes?”

Your fingers hover gently against the messy lines, the shades that make up the hair of the subject he’s chosen. A part of you wonders who--it’s a woman, you realize, with ankles locked over the other and arms resting against dusted knees. He hasn’t drawn the face, and a warmth suddenly tightens in your belly.

You clear your throat of any trace that you’re otherwise bothered, flipping to the page after that. “A matter of perspective, maybe.”

This one is new, unfamiliar--you realize these are sketches of his academy, a vanilla concept but it’s different, fresh to you. Seeing things through his eyes never bores you, never tires you of what catches his attention that doesn’t for yourself. They’re painted in watercolor and your cheeks warm at the thought that he remembers those are your favorite, the softness of the paint and how not everything needs to stay within the lines.

Landscapes have always been more of his focus but you start seeing a few rough designs here and there of the long, messy sketched hair. You don’t bother to ask him who it is, though you’re more curious than anything. To your knowledge the academy is an all boys school, though you’re also equally aware that a bar isn’t.

Still, you can’t help but be truefully awed. His raw sketches remind you of Degas, Manet, impressionists that seem to breathe life through his genius. You don’t voice this, of course; Timur is his own person, and he owes it to himself to temper his own craft. He’s not here to be told that he’s anyone else.

“Well,” you sniff a little, “I guess you improved a _little_ bit.”

“You are hard to please,” he answers back, watching as you flip through and through until you gently shut it back when the canvas turns blank. There’s still plenty of pages left for him to fill, and you doubt he’d have much trouble finding any inspiration to add to them, with what his soon-to-be worldly travels nowadays.

Though his last words are mirthful, joyous and teasing even, he looks like he’s trying to find the right way to ask you something else. Which is a crime, really--why should he have any reason to struggle finding anything to ask you about? He’d been merciless that time he’d told you of his departure, and it feels unfair, cowardly, _stupid_ even that he can’t seem to ask you something so simple now that you can both bid time until.

The answer comes to him as blunt as his question, blurting out, “Can I draw you?”

Well, that doesn’t sound as right in his head. You look surprised at that request and he panics for a moment, supplying, “As in, can you model for me? I want to practice more.”

It would make sense, right? It’s not odd of him to ask you, and if anything feels _right_ where it should be.

You stifle a laugh behind your knees. “Like, _naked?_ ”

He literally chokes on nothing, replying with uncertainty. “I… well…” he begins, but recovers with, “that wasn’t the _plan_ , but if you’re offering--”

Your fist connects with his bicep, enough impact for it to resonate against the walls with a delighted, open-mouth laugh.

“Not as easy as that, _zhopa_. But who am I to deny my _khxudozhnik?_ Very well. Naked or no, I suppose I can do this for you.”

If there’s anything you both make good on since your time apart, it’s being liberally generous of the time you have together now. You didn’t expect him to want to draw you so soon, retiring the conversation back upstairs in your bedroom, seated in front of your vanity mirror and pulling your earrings free.

You’d been going off on one of your professors and how poorly his rubric had been presented, causing a dilemma for final grades--only after glancing in the mirror at Timur do your senses pick up the scratching graphite of pencil to paper, his blue eyes glancing up at you to meet the red bullet you’ve got pressed to your lips.

“ _Chto eto?_ ” you pose, reapplying your lipstick. “So soon? Wouldn’t you want me looking my best, Timur?”

“You always do,” he replies without missing a beat, though you only huff in return. It seems the military not only refined his battlefield prowess but his way with words--you credit it more or less to the fact you’ve both been separated for so long, but you’d never pegged him to be a sweet talker.

From his attention, you seem to pride yourself on deliberately taking your time with the careful sweep of the bullet, reaching for a tissue to blot the excess with a soft press of your lips. After another soft dabble of the lipstick, you purse your lips together and appear satisfied in the mirror, turning around to stand.

What he doesn’t expect is for your sudden _launch_ into him, grin wide and ready to wrestle him into your mattress in an ages-old tumble you share when instinct kicks him impolitely in the shin. Two years of training and he can’t rightly be blamed for suddenly lifting you in his arms and slamming you down into the center of the bed and beneath him, wrangling your arms against the cushioned fabric with practiced ease. A whoosh of breath hits your lungs from the impact, bouncing till you both come to a standstill and the weight of Timur’s hips keep you anchored down and immobile.

Wide eyed, you blink up at Timur with dumbfounded astonishment, and realize that he isn’t the same boy who had always let you win as children.

And Timur seems to realize his own actions as well, his words starting out in what you believe is an apology--but his mistake is letting his guard down at all when you pounce to wrestle him into a headlock.

From a floor down below, your mother and his pause their conversation in the kitchen, glancing upwards at the trembling ceiling lamp and shaking dust. Following that comes a loud thud, your even louder voice, and Timur’s muffled grumbling that _you’re too rough, pchelka, my ribs_ and your louder complaint that he’d gone soft through the army. 

You only wish that things could stay the way they were--with him struggling in your arms in a chokehold until he’s tapping at your arms for mercy, and leaving those kiss marks against his cheek in apology. You wish he wouldn’t have to see the things he will, like the war in Georgia two years from now, or the fact that he’d return home even more somber than the other Christmases past.

Or that he’d refused to tell you that he’d been transferred to another active duty position after the war with the Spetsnaz, one too important for him to acknowledge and inform you out of protocol, worrying yourself at university day after day if he would even be alive or not.

No, neither of you rightly act until your graduation from university, and that wouldn’t be until seven years from now.


End file.
